


Control

by alianora



Category: The Inside (TV)
Genre: Creepy as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-16
Updated: 2007-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:49:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1629962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alianora/pseuds/alianora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was only a little girl, after all, and what do little girls know about power?<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Control

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Anya

 

 

When she was younger, when she got back, she had been a cutter. An anorexic, a bulimic, a girl who wanted to see her own blood spill on the floor as she died. No, as she _lived._

It was about control, her therapist had said, had told her parents. She was taken, the therapist said, and she had no control over it. This was her way of gaining control back.

But it was a lie; she had always been in control. She had been the one in control.

A little girl, holding control over a sick man who wanted to do anything to make her happy, just so long as she would do this and this and this with her mouth her hand her...

Her therapist wouldn't have believed her. Her parents knew she was too innocent. She was only a little girl, after all, and what do little girls know about power?

The first time he...the first time she let him...the first time he wiped her tears and the blood away and bought her an ice cream she... 

He spoiled her, really. Except for that. He was always bringing her presents. Candy, toys, even a tiny little grey kitten who would sleep cuddled up underneath her chin.

He had killed the kitten, eventually. Or told her he did. She was getting older, growing up, and he didn't like her as much as he had when she first went with him to see the ponies.

Her therapist had frizzy grey hair that she pulled back in a braid ( _I'm sure dear little Becky will feel more comfortable with a woman. A man might bring back bad memories_ ), and she always wore cardigan sweaters covered in cat hair. The woman would clasp her hands in front of her and gasp as she spoke, waiting to hear the details of what had happened.

She used to sit and stare at the cat hair on her therapist's breasts, imagining how he would have made faces at the stupid toys around the office. In the corner of the desk, there was a picture of a pony, and Becky would look and look and look, but he was never in it.

He had a camera, but he never let her touch it. Said he saved it for the most special of occasions - like her birthday, when he dressed her up like a princess and let her wear makeup and high heels. The camera was set up on a tripod, and took pictures automatically, so he could be in the frame too.

Becky never gave details during her appointments, not at first, because she was confused and didn't really understand what the woman wanted, and then not later, because that was power, just like the first time she managed without gagging, and he took her outside in a skirt with no panties to ride the ponies as a reward. Her feet dangled down below the stirrups, and his hand was firm on her thigh as he walked beside her.

She had worn a skirt to the fair that year when he found her, and he told her he loved thinking of her like that, all innocence and wide eyes, and waiting for him.

What he would tell her when he was rocking her to sleep, that was power. She knew that, even as a little girl. He always smelled of cotton candy and horses, and he would tell her fairy tales, and ask her to call him Daddy.

Her therapist always wanted to know where and when and how he had touched her ( _Becky, sweetie, you can tell me_ ), and she licked her lips as she talked.

Web's lips were dry when he smiled and welcomed her to the team, and she thought of sharks and how her Criminal Law professor lips had curved when he told her he wouldn't write a recommendation for the FBI.

She let her professor fuck her, hard, up against a wall in the men's room after class sometimes. The feel of the porcelain was cold and hard under her hip, bruising and blossoming into yellow and green. No one could see the fingerprints he left on her sides. She liked to shift positions slowly in her desk, feeling the dull ache on her body.

He wrote her the recommendation, lips pressed to her pulse point, hand around her throat as she bent over his desk, face pressed to the dark grain as she watched him sign his name. Her skirt was pushed up to her waist, and her lavender panties were torn.

She thought of her professor's smile, and of sharks and crab claws when she told the Dean the next day, crocodile tears tracing down her face ( _He..he..told me he loved me_ ). Rebecca didn't say that she hadn't turned away, had mocked him for taking too long, had been the one to approach him.

Web had approached her, handpicked her for his team. And he watched her, eyes on her in the field and in the office, and she can't help feeling that he is waiting for her to break. For her to slip, and lose control, just for a moment.

Web paired her with Paul, and she could laugh, if she remembered how. She wondered who Web was testing - herself or Paul. Paul was protective of her, almost to the point of obsession. It made things difficult.

Danny would have been easier to handle. He was more straightforward - unmarried, attractive, appreciative of her body, if she read his glances right. If she beckoned, she could have him. If she wanted him.

She toyed with the thought, at first. She would like to try the challenge that lurked in Danny's eyes. He admired her body, but there was something knowing about how he looked at her. Like he could see inside her to the little girl that had been left behind on the floor of a burned out hotel room. It made her shiver when she caught him watching her.

She couldn't decide if she liked it.

Mel would be a problem, anyway, if Rebecca decided to chase that look in the corner of Agent Love's mouth. Her eyes were entirely too keen, and she stayed too close to Danny for Rebecca to figure out if she even wanted to bother playing with him. Mel's look said she knew the rumors, knew what people had said about Rebecca - the rumors, true and untrue, that followed her.

She knew. She listened to the stories.

Stories about how men she dated seemed to disappear, get demoted, end up hurt or dead. Or worse. Rumors about how she had won a place on a team like Web's, when she couldn't even pass the basic psych evaluation to go into the field.

She listened to the stories people told about Web, too, and she wondered if all he really wanted was a pretty little girl like her to sit on his lap and call him Daddy.

END

 


End file.
